At night, when Honeyman comes in, he finds on the hall-table three wax bedroom candles--his own, Bagshot's, and another.

As for Miss Cann, she is locked into the parlour in bed long ago, her stout little walking-shoes being on the mat at the door.

At 12 o'clock at noon, sometimes at 1, nay at 2 and 3--long after Bagshot is gone to his committees, and little Cann to her pupils--a voice issues from the very topmost floor, from a room where there is no bell; a voice of thunder calling out "Slavey! Julia! Julia, my love! Mrs.Ridley!" And this summons not being obeyed, it will not unfrequently happen that a pair of trousers enclosing a pair of boots with iron heels, and known by the name of the celebrated Prussian General who came up to help the other christener of boots at Waterloo, will be flung down from the topmost story, even to the marble floor of the resounding hall.

Then the boy Thomas, otherwise called Slavey, may say, "There he goes again;" or Mrs.
Ridley's own back-parlour bell rings vehemently, and Julia the cook will exclaim, "Lor, it's Mr.Frederick." If the breeches and boots are not understood, the owner himself appears in great wrath dancing on the upper story; dancing down to the lower floor; and loosely enveloped in a ragged and flowing robe de chambre.
In this costume and condition he will dance into Honeyman's apartment, where that meek divine may be sitting with a headache or over a novel or a newspaper; dance up to the fire flapping his robe-tails, poke it, and warm himself there; dance up to the cupboard where his reverence keeps his sherry, and help himself to a glass.
"Salve, spes fidei, lumen ecclesiae," he will say; "here's towards you, my buck.

I knows the tap.